Your Heart is My Piñata
by I am Pickle
Summary: Post book 6. Percy has problems. work sucks, he is not on speaking terms with his family, voldemort is back... an affair with one gorgeous blonde should help! err, unless said blonde happens to be a 17 yr old boy on the run from the ministry DMPW
1. I’ll Wait For You

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Prologue: I'll Wait For You

The past year had not been good to Draco Malfoy.

This fact was evident by his very appearance. His eyes were dull and lifeless; his once immaculate hair fell in dirty clomps around his pale face. Even his clothes echoed the hardships he had endured. Faded and torn, they hung loosely on his thin frame. No, this was no the same boy who just a year ago was sleeping on silver and green silk sheets, wondering how to skip class the next day.

So much had changed in so short a time that Draco could barely wrap his head around it all. Usually he wouldn't even try; he would just shut his eyes tightly and imagine that this was all a dream, and maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, things would go back to the way the used to be. Sometimes he would stay like this for hours. Searching the darkness for some comfort he never found.

Draco shifted positions to look at his gold watch, now so out of place on his body. Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours left until this secret hideaway became a not-so-secret hideaway. Fourteen hours left until he would have to, once again, go out into a hostile world in search of some other cave or basement to cal home. Only to leave that new place 93 hours later in favor of somewhere else. And then another place, and another, and another…

Back then, when listening to his father talk about his days as a Death Eater, Draco would image a world of decadence and mystery, filled with hidden passageways and dark rooms. He had also imagined, with excitement, what it would have been like hiding from the Ministry as his father had. Always on the run, never staying in one place too long. It had seemed so romantic in his youth. Then, Voldemort was said to have come back. Suddenly, life as a Death Eater was no longer an impossibility. At first, this scared Draco, but his father found ways to reassure him. "This will mark an important turning point in our history." he had said, "be ready Draco." During his fifth and sixth year, Draco would lie on his bed for hours and imagine the adventures he'd have, the praise the Dark Lord would, undoubtedly, give him, the power he'd amass…

The former Slytherin laughed bitterly at the memory. Now he saw all those things for what they truly were: The stupid fantasies of a boy too young to tell his thumb from his dick. There weren't any dark velvet cloaks or ritual oils here. No grand rooms or state-of-the-art secret buildings. There was only this cold, stone floor and the sound of water dripping from the pipes above. Funny how quickly dreams can give way to reality.

A cold gust of air blew into the dark room, and Draco curled into fetal position in a vain attempt to avoid hypothermia. Despite the cold, he wouldn't dare use magic. They would surely find him if he did. But, freezing to death wasn't an option either. His father failed to mention times like these in his stories.

Suddenly, Draco heard the soft pop that usually accompanies an apparition. Hearth racing, he turned in the direction of the noise to see who had come. After a few seconds he saw two spots of light in the darkness.

What little light there was in the room was reflecting against Percy Weasley's horn-rimmed glasses. After spotting Draco, Percy began to walk toward his position. The blonde stood up to greet him.

"You look kind of creepy." Draco said with a wide grin on his face, "I didn't think you would come to see me again so soon. Couldn't stay away, huh?" He had lost his drawl a long time ago.

Percy said nothing in response. He didn't even make eye contact, only continued walking up to Draco. This strange behavior didn't pass the younger boy up.

"Hey, is something wrong?"

"No." Percy's voice was raw and quiet; he stood only a foot away. Draco attempted to reach out to him, but Percy pulled back.

"Then, what's going on? What are you doing here?"

Percy finally looked up from the floor. "I hope, I truly hope, Draco, that they don't give you the kiss."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"

"The Ministry has brought back the dememtors and-"

"No! you can't mean…" Draco took a step back, his eyes widened in shock.

"Yeah, yeah," Percy whispered almost to himself "You've been a little sloppy lately, and I've got it all baby, every last bit of it, and I'm turning you in."

"No, please no, you can't!" Draco was finding it hard to breath. Was this another nightmare; it had to be. Percy wouldn't do this; he wouldn't do this to him.

When it looked like Draco was going to make a run for it, Percy grabbed his shoulders with two arms and pulled the smaller youth into his chest. "It's going to be okay." he whispered into Draco's ear, "even if they give you life, that's only a twenty year sentence, and I'll wait. I'll wait for you. Twenty years is noting."

The soft sound of other appariting into the room could soon be heard. Draco began to sob uncontrollably into Percy's chest.

Stroking Draco's dirty blonde locks, Percy continued to whisper into his ear. "Don't cry. Don't cry. Can't you see? You're all I have left, and I can't live without you. Can't you see?"

Ooooooh, dramatic


	2. Fillers

Me: Now to travel back in time! ---_One year ago_ ---

All: gasp how'd you do that?

Me: I'm magic.

Fillers

Nobody's life is perfect. We all know this. Everyone's story contains the occasional hole here or there. It doesn't really matter what _it_ is: bad childhood, broken heart, unexpected death…fucking up big time and not being able to take it back. Once these holes are there we have to fill them up somehow, make ourselves feel complete even though we're actually we're broken and empty.

But you have to watch out; some holes can be bigger and darker than others. Try to fill up one of these monsters, and you'll find yourself buried alive.

My filler is work, work and the seedy little bar known as Hog's Head. Not that either one of them have been any good to me lately.

…

The slurred speech of the fifty-something year old man sitting next to me is difficult to make out, but I think he said: "You know what your problem is?"

"No." I reply, "…well yes, but you tell me anyway." Oman's leathery old hands reach out for his glass; I watch as he drinks the viscous orange contents of it. He lets out a long breath and slams his hook hand on the counter, signaling for a refill.

"Your problem is that _you_ are a man." The right side of Oman's face never moves when he talks. This fact alone makes him difficult to understand, but that coupled with his blood alcohol level makes deciphering the illusive tongue of "Oman-ese" almost impossible, unless you happen to really know him. "You are a grown…tiny man."

"I am a grown tiny man." I mumble to myself as I take another sip of wine. Wine; I always have wine. Truthfully, I don't even like it. I know I should like it. I have seen important men having important conversations with other important men, and they always drink wine from fine crystal goblets while they do. They speak to each other, take a sip, and laugh ever so proudly.

The old wizard shakes his head vigorously when I repeat his words. Oman's hair is what you get when a habitual drunk has to choose between alcohol and shampoo. Oman's face is gaunt and pale except for the large, angry, red scar on the right side of his face. It looks exactly like Oman, you know, the country, and that's why we call him Oman. Well, that and because no one knows his real name.

"A man, even a tiny man," Oman points to me as he says tiny, "has got to do what he's got to do. Ya get me? You can't be t-old no nothing. You just gotta do what you-"

"gotta do." I finish up for him.

Oman's shaking his head vigorously again. It is such a pathetic scene, this wasted, old man, and that's the real reason I talk to him- aside from the excellent conversation of course. Every time I look at the train wreck that is Oman, I feel a little better about myself.

I finish up the rest of my wine, leave some money on the table (that I know Oman is going to steal as soon as I'm gone), and I head out the door. I would have loved to have stayed a little longer, but Hagrid is bound to show up anytime now, and I always leave before he comes.

As I walk away from Hog's Head, I pull my cloak a little tighter around me. I'm not cold at all, but I feel as tough I should be cold. Does that make any sense?

Apparation is not as exciting as it was the first few months after I received my license. Also, I've discovered that it has an adverse effect on my stomach, especially when said stomach is filled with nothing other than two glasses of cheap wine. Anyway, it always gets me home, and I'll walk before I take a broom somewhere.

I get to my apartment building without any trouble.

I had always envisioned living in my own flat: waking up in my own bed, having my own bathroom, eating in my own kitchen, and never, ever, ever having to share anything. This, too, isn't as exciting as I had once imagined. I would like to think it is because I regret…a few things, but I don't like to think about it; it'll just make my angry. It's amazing how quickly regret and pain can turn into anger and hatred.

I open the door and nearly have a heart attack. There is a man standing in the middle of my living room with his back turned to me. I'm either paralyzed by fear or I don't care enough to reach for my wand.

"It is a bit late to be getting home, isn't it Mr. Weasley." says the man, "I hope you don't mind me letting myself in. There is a matter of some importance I would like to discuss with you."

The Minister of Magic is in my living room…I think I felt better when I thought he was a Death Eater.

Would really appreciate some feedback…please?


	3. A Helping Hand

I'd apologize for the wait if anyone was actually reading this.

A Helping Hand

I blink once, twice. Yup, the Minister of Magic is still standing in the middle of my living room, suspiciously eyeing my overstuffed, green couch.…I'm so totally fucked.

"Mr. Weasley… are you quite alright?"

No, my heart is playing some Native African drum solo that the butterflies in my stomach are dancing to, and I'm piss ass drunk. "O-of course Minister, please, er, come in." I stammer, trying not to slur my words.

There is a long pause in which Rufus Scrimgeour looks me over disapprovingly. "Mr. Weasley," he speaks slowly, enunciating each word carefully, as though I'm some immigrant worker. "you do realize that I am, in fact, already inside you're…home."

"Err, y-yeah." I'm soooooooo fucked.

No. I'll be alright as long as I calm down. According to "A Study of Hogwarts' Prefects and Their Later Careers", a true professional is always cool under pressure. I take a deep breath, plaster a large fake smile on my face, and approach the former Auror. "You'll have to excuse me, it's not everyday I walk in on the Minister of Magic in my living room!" I force a laugh and then turn my tone more serious. "It is such an honor to have you over, especially when taking in account the current events. I'm sure you are a very busy man, and-"

I'm cut off by a scoff from Scrimgeour. "This is not a social visit Mr. Weasley."

I suddenly have a horrible thought: Perhaps the Minister needs to talk to my family again. Yes, Scrimgeour is probably here because of my 'fortunate connections'. This is no surprise. To be honest, the man has never approached me unless he needed something. I often get the feeling the old Auror doesn't like me much.

"Perhaps we should have a seat?" The expression on the old man is one of annoyance now. I don't let this discourage me. With another fake smile I motion towards the green couch. Even after we are both seated, the tension in the room is unbearable.

"Could I get you some t-" I began to say, only to be interrupted by Scrimgeour yet again.

"No! No, that's quite alright."

The Minister raises his hand left hand and places it on my shoulder. "Mr. Wea…Percy, as you said before these are indeed troubled times: times of fear, confusion, and, unfortunately loss."

"Very eloquently put Minster."

Something like a grimace flashes across the Scrimgeour's face before he continues. "Despite these hard times, we must not allow ourselves not to fall victim to fear, grief, and blame. We must stand firm in order to defeat He-who-must-not-be-named."

Wow, this sound serious (as well as highly rehearsed). Maybe I'm being promoted.

"…But, as I look around this country I realize the devastating impact Professor Dumbledore's death is having on the whole of England."

"I know exactly what you mean, sir. I can honestly tell you there wasn't a dry eye anywhere in my corridor." I look away, sighing deeply "I myself like to find solace in the Ministry, and, if I may say, your excellent handling of the matter." When I look back at Scrimgeour, I blanch. The old man is wearing a wry grin on his face; in this light, it makes him look almost malevolent.

"Yes, yes, _exactly_. In these, our darkest days, people _should_ look to their government, and only their government, for comfort. We need their unwavering support. We need them to understand: you are either with us, or against us. How else can we defeat this evil which lurks behind every corner?"

"How, indeed?"

"Percy," Scrimgeour eyes are locked with mine, "The people want answers."

Okay, I'm officially freaked out now. "Answers for what Minister?"

"The break-ins, Barty Crouch, the Dementors, Snape, the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Dumbledore's murder, the Triwizard Tournament fiasco…my predecessor." Scrimgeour's hand on my shoulder tightens as he speaks. Soon I feel his fingernails digging into my skin.

"M-minister." I whisper, pleading. He ignores this and, instead, pulls me in closer.

"The Ministry needs your help, Percy. Help that only you can give…You were present, and closely related to all of the recent, err, mishaps."

My whole body goes numb as realization set in. They need a scapegoat, and it looks like they found one.

"You're making me the fall guy?" This. can't. be. happening.

Anger disfigures the old mans face; the next words are said trough clenched teeth. "Dose your loyalty only surface when beneficial to your career? I'm not asking you to throw away your life. I'm asking you to make a great sacrifice for your country. Perhaps you have not realized, but we are at war!"

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that this isn't right. Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain stopped working some time ago, and my defense is not exactly a strong one. "B-b-but…no, you see…I, y-you…"

Scrimgeour finally releases my shoulder. I scarcely notice. "This is a _friendly _visit Percy. And, I feel for you; I really do." Here Scrimgeour's voice drops to a whisper. "But, if you were to disclose anything from this conversation, if you were to dispute the facts which will be soon printed in _The Daily Prophet_, our next conversation will not be as pleasant…"

The Minister stands up and walks towards the door. Before leaving, he turns to me one last time. "…A martyr can serve me just as well. Good evening Mr. Weasley."

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If you **review**, I'll update more often…and I'll also start helping old women across the street, go to Church, donate to charity, ummm, save kittens and puppies from the cold…

So, review. I can take criticism. Come on.

Think of the kitties!


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